


Till Death Do Us Part (So, Never)

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: At least there's cake, Demons in London, Dinner at the Ritz gone wrong, Established Relationship, Imp attack, M/M, Marriage ala POTC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale dodged a flying chair – the imps were getting smarter, damn it all – and seemed to come to a conclusion. “Crowley, will you marry me?”Crowley snapped his fingers and the imp exploded into a hail of gummy bears. “I don’t think now is the right time for this, angel.”





	Till Death Do Us Part (So, Never)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wedding prompt on the Good Omens kink meme!
> 
> May be edited/cleaned up in the future. Let me know if you spot any typos.

Crowley hated imps. With a passion, and especially the ones who could fly. Who, by G- Sa- whoever had suggested that particular modification to Hell-born familiars, anyway? Oh, right, it had been him. Crowley ducked out of the way of a flying imp, dove behind an upturned dinner table and spew a frighteningly creative curse.

The imp zipped past him and, in true familiar fashion, went splat against the wall.

Crowley shook his head. He should have suggested an update in intelligence, not that Hell had much of that to spare. He’d put it in a future memo, along with the suggestion to give them all a nice, long bath in Holy Water. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Between the horde of imps busting the Ritz’ doors down and the ensuing human panic, he’d lost sight of Aziraphale. Because of course the blasted angel immediately lost all decorum and fell over himself – literally – to help the other guests.

Now the angel was nowhere to be seen. Not even when Crowley cautiously peeked around the side of the fallen table he was hiding behind. What he did see was an imp planting his ginormous foot on a downed waiter’s chest.

To his horror, Crowley recognized him. It was the chap who’d suggested an outrageously excellent Riesling last – no, wait, two weeks before.

“Little bit of divine intervention here,” Crowley grumbled, in the vain hopes that Aziraphale would hear. When nothing happened for a long moment, and the imp unhinged it’s equally disproportional maw to swallow the human whole, Crowley snapped his fingers.

The creature imploded in a rain of confetti. The waiter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head, then his eyes rolled back and he passed out.

“You’re welcome,” said Crowley and was in the process of devising a brilliantly devious plan to get both his and his very own eternal adversary out of the high-end restaurant when a splintering sound drew his attention.

A second later, the kitchen came flying past. There was really no other word for it.

Wide-eyed, Crowley turned to the hole in the wall, in which stood – of bloody course – the Antichrist himself, flanked by his ever-present friends.

Adam Young, now a strapping seventeen, just past his pimple-phase and still up to no good, took in the room. Hellfire, red like fresh blood on a white table cloth, blazed in his eyes. He spotted Crowley before the demon could duck and gave him a careful nod. Then he turned to his friends. “Right, Wes, Pep, you take the right. Brian, you’re with me. We’re saving the librarian.”

The Them jumped what was left of the kitchen wall and threw themselves into the fight.

To Crowley’s surprise, they weren’t even half-bad. The girl, while having looked terrifying wielding a flaming sword of enough fighting power to reduce Crowley’s very soul to ashes, somehow seemed even more vicious with a five feet long wooden stick in her small, sure hands. One of the boys followed her, picking up stray cutlery to chuck at his attackers.

The Antichrist himself and the boy that was probably Brian made their way towards Crowley. “What the hell happened here?”

“Demons,” shouted Crowley, hitting an imp over the head with a frying pan that had come sailing past. “The nasty kind, not the me kind.”

“What do they want?!”

“Autographs!”

Adam stopped short. “Seriously?”

“Duck!”

The Antichrist dropped to the floor, Crowley swung his frying pan and a sickening crack rang out. One of the warty, green-skinned demons dropped to the floor. His nose looked a little askew, which, considering the rest of his face, was a serious improvement.

While Adam seemed to have to fight the urge to check for a pulse, Crowley frantically turned around himself. “Aziraphale! Where are you?”

“Over here,” came the angel’s small voice. A head of blonde curls popped up on the lower floor.

A metric ton of weight lifted from Crowley’s heart. Only to drop right onto it again when he spotted the three demons that were closing in on Aziraphale. 

“Don’t need no autographs from a sodding angel,” one of them crowed. “Drown in ink!”

Crowley darted down the stairs. “Hang on, angel, I’m coming!”

“Wait,” shouted Adam. “I can help!”

Together, they made their way towards Aziraphale, but found themselves confronted by a towering mass of warty demon before they could get to him. “You the boss’ boy, then? I got a piece of paper here, if you please.”

Adam kicked a soup bowl, sending it rolling between the feet of the approaching demon. He jumped out of the way as if it might explode, giving Crowley just enough time to dart in front of Aziraphale. “Angel, you alright?”

“Never better,” he panted. “No, you know what? I’m actually not alright. This is terribly bothersome.”

He got to his feet with a helping hand from Crowley, and the two of them turned to find Adam already engaged on the front line again, this time firing apples and ripe oranges with Brian’s help.

And that was the moment the window exploded. Never mind that the double doors of the front entrance had already been open – it seemed the two demons that climbed in needed to make an impression. First time out of Hell, probably.

Crowley grabbed the angel around the waist and hauled them both behind yet another fallen table. This one had a nice salad spread going on the other side; spread meaning that it was strewn all over the nice floor.

The angel looked worried. “We can’t let them get to the humans, Crowley.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Crowley ground out. He summoned a ball of fire, but due to his lack of concentration, he ended up with a ball of gravy instead.

Aziraphale was still armed with his improvised stick. Together they rose to face the rookie demons.

Neither of them ever really saw what hit them. At least not after the gravy had hit them, splattering their faces enough that they needed to take a moment to wipe the salty stuff out of their eyes. One angelic finger-snap later, they were summarily sent back to whatever pit they’d crawled out of.

Sadly, said snap did not include the imps. It appeared someone had let loose the entire fucking compound, because their numbers were still rising. At this rate, even Crowley would have trouble getting out without getting discorporated.

He exchanged a worried glance with the angel, who looked as uncertain as Crowley, himself, felt.

Somewhere in the melee, the Antichrist’s girlfriend let out a war cry that would have put an Amazon’s to shame.

Aziraphale dodged a flying chair – the imps were getting smarter, damn it all – and seemed to come to a conclusion. “Crowley, will you marry me?”

Crowley blinked. Blinked again. Then he stuck a finger into his ear and wriggled it. “What?!”

“You heard –”

Before the angel could finish, an imp dropped onto his head. Someone must have thrown him, because he looked just as surprised as Aziraphale, before gathering his wits about him and opening his maw.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the imp exploded, this time into a hail of gummy bears. “I don’t think now is the right time for this, angel.”

More imps rained from the ceiling. Ten, twenty – far too many to snap out of existence, or transmute into birthday sweets.

Aziraphale swung the leg of the chair like a bat, hitting one overly bloated creature across the dining hall. Then he whirled to face Crowley. The expression on his face was so utterly open and honest, it made Crowley’s breath stick in his throat.

“I love you, Crowley,” he said. “I– I think I always have. It’s been six thousand years, my dear, and if we die here... – Just, don’t you think it’s time?”

Crowley stared. Warmth spread through his chest, unspooling from the tight little corner he’d kept it in like yarn between the paws of a cat, and suddenly, he felt light, weightless, as if he’d float away if he didn’t find anything to hold on to. Aziraphale’s arm, for example.

The angel’s blue eyes shone, like the sky before there was a world – endless and free.

Crowley realized he’d made his choice a long, long time ago. He closed his hand around Aziraphale’s, took a deep breath and hollered across the dining hall: “Adam Young! Antichrist! Get over here!”

“Little busy at the moment,” Adam shouted back, holding three pen-and-paper-wielding demons at bay with a platter of canapés.

“You need to marry us!”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand in silent question.

The demon shot him his most reckless grin. “He’s the only higher authority around.”

Adam finally managed to ditch his occult admirers by backing them into the wine rack, where Brian waited with a bottle in each hand to whack them over the head. The Antichrist dashed towards them just as the newest flood of imps poured through the windows and the three of them found themselves in the middle of the dining hall, surrounded on all sides.

“This way!”

Crowley, still holding tightly onto Aziraphale, pointed to the dessert island, which was, miraculously, the only piece of furniture still standing in the entire room. The panna cotta seemed to have taken a bit of a hit when something demonic landed in it, and the massive tiered cake that made up the middle seemed ready to wobble off the table, but since the displayed sweets weren’t actually meant to be eaten, anyway–

Adam grabbed both their sleeves and together, they dove behind the island. Breathing hard, he looked first at Aziraphale, then at Crowley. “You got rings?”

Aziraphale pulled his signet ring – an antiquated piece, beautifully crafted – off his finger and held it up.

Crowley, pressed for time, dug into his pockets. He came back with a gummy ring.

“Stand-in,” he declared before Aziraphale got time to object. “I’ll get you a better one when we’re not drowning in imps.”

“Alright,” said Adam, craning his neck to peer around the cake. “Do you, heavenly Angel A–”

“Aziraphale!”

“Aziraphale take this demon to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, not that it matters–” He picked up a bowl of Tiramisu and hurled it into the room. “Get away from Pepper, you fangirl! Anyway, in sickness and in health, until death–”

“Until nothing do us part, ever,” said Aziraphale, with conviction. “I do.”

He slid the ring onto the demon’s finger. Crowley’s cheeks hurt, he was smiling so much.

Adam’s eyes caught his. “And do you, demon Crowley –”

“The English ones, please.”

“What?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You watch too much American TV, kid. Aziraphale. Angel. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. And I will– I will love you and honor you all the days of my endless life. Every single one of them.”

“I take it you’ll take me as your lawfully wedded husband, then, my dear?”

“I do!”

The gummy ring was a little harder to get on, being coated in sugar and thus very sticky, but Aziraphale looked nonetheless more pleased than ever.

“Great!” Adam yelled. He turned to his eternal companions. “You may now– Oy, I said get the fuck away from Pepper, I am not going to repeat myself! You! May now! DUCK!”

He jumped to his feet.

Crowley’s hand shot out to grab his sweater.

The Antichrist waved his hand. “Just kiss him, you idiot! And congratulations!”

Crowley bent his head. Aziraphale rose onto his tiptoes to meet him. Time seemed to stop around them as the moment hung suspended. Nothing seemed to exist besides one another, wrapped up in each other, and the bond that snapped into existence between them. It wound through them, tugging, until the connection felt strong and sturdy as steel coil: a beacon that would lead them home, from anywhere in the universe.

Behind them, the kitchen exploded again. Probably a gas leak.

Aziraphale drew back, flushed, wide-eyed and a little bit shocked.

Crowley took his hand and reached for the massive cake with the other. It was all but falling apart – better to get some use out of it while it was still in the process of disintegrating and not fully there yet.

“What do you say, husband? Time to send some hellspawn back to where they came from?”

Aziraphale laughed. “After you.”

Across the room, the last demon rose to face them. Crowley threw the cake.


End file.
